


Bad Seed

by Safiyabat



Series: SPN Season 11 Episode Tags [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 18:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5058925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Safiyabat/pseuds/Safiyabat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>**Spoilers for s11e03 "The Bad Seed" </p><p>Sam reflects on Dean's reaction to Rowena's revelations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Seed

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my awesome beta, SweetSamofMine!

           Sam re-shelved books and brought his brother beer until he couldn’t’ pretend to tolerate the silence any longer.  Castiel just slumped in the corner like some kind of kicked puppy, like someone had forgotten to take the chains off.  Dean sat in his chair, snapping if Sam tried to speak or encourage him to do things like ice his bruises.  He wouldn’t even look at Sam, hadn’t since he’d found out about Sam’s deal with Rowena.  Sam supposed that was fair enough; Sam had broken the rules, he had kept something from Dean.  rHe’d had his reasons, starting with the fact that Dean had long since ceased to be at home to reason with at the time.  And he’d been justified, he thought, by Dean’s tendency to turn into a slaughtering machine at the drop of a hat.  After all, when Dean had found out that Sam was working to cure him he’d outright wished Sam dead.  And then, after everything, he hadn’t even considered wanting to kill Crowley a secret.  He’d never exactly held his tongue on that count.  But rules were rules, no keeping secrets from Dean, and now Dean was tempermental and bitey.

            So finally Sam just went to bed, retreating to his little room with a couple of manuscripts in medieval Hebrew that looked like they might be promising.  He didn’t know for sure that they’d have information about The Darkness, or clues, but their entries in the card catalogue suggested that they might offer a starting point and at least it would give him something to do when the insomnia kicked in.

            No one said anything when he retreated from the common area.  Neither Dean nor Cas bade him good night as he walked past them.  Sam didn’t say anything to them either.

            Christ, and Dean called this a home.  Sam shook his head as he got ready for bed, gun under his pillow, angel blade ready under the covers.  For crying out loud, even the temporary shelters they’d had with John had been better than this, however permanent the roof here might be.  Those places had at least contained some signs of life, even if Sam had been excluded from most of it.  This – this was a prison, or maybe a mausoleum.

            He bit down on his lip and held back a scream, breathing very slowly as he tried to find his center.  He’d hoped that things would get better once the Mark was gone, but that had been stupid.  Sam had been stupid; Sam was stupid.  He’d let Dean down, again.  It was all he did, all he was capable of.  Sure he’d saved the people in Superior, but he had let his brother down and that erased any kind of good that he might have done.

            Sam’s eyes refused to close, and his hand kept reaching for the gun under his pillow.  Maybe sleep wasn’t going to come so easily tonight.

            He sat up and turned on the bedside lamp.  He’d learned a long time ago – as a kid, really – that the worst thing for insomnia was to sit there in the dark and think about it.  Then all he could do was think about the reasons he might not be sleeping, and that didn’t tend to be great for his mental health on the best of days.  He needed to be productive.  He needed to stay sharp.  Billie, the reaper, had a special place for him on her list.  He didn’t mind, it wasn’t like he had a lot to hang around for, but he needed to get as much done as he could before she showed up and sent him to the Empty.

            Fortunately, translating from medieval Hebrew to modern English took just enough mental cycles to distract him.  His other issues didn’t go away, but they retreated to the background while he focused on verb cases and the linguistic differences in a language that had been spoken for thousands of years, in communities across a massive geography, before mass communication.

            He had no idea how long it had been before he was interrupted.  His only certainties were that he hadn’t learned anything about the Darkness and that everything that Rabbinical Scholar #514 “knew” about the Cage was entirely and thoroughly wrong.  He considered making notes in the margins of the text before answering the door, but didn’t see the point.  It wasn’t as though the few people who might ever read the notes would care for his opinion.

            He got up from his desk and stalked over to the door, glancing through the peephole to see who might be interrupting his studies this late at night.  He was only mildly surprised to find Castiel there; they weren’t all that close, and Cas never came to him when he had Dean to speak with, but on the other hand Dean never knocked.  “Hey, Cas.”  Sam forced a little half-smile onto his face.  “What’s up?”

            The angel frowned.  “I noticed that your light was on.  I hope that I’m not disturbing your slumber.”

            “I wasn’t sleeping.”  Sam moved aside as Castiel shouldered his way into the room.

            “You should be.  Sleep is essential for optimum functioning, and Dean is unlikely to tolerate anything below optimum.”

            “Make yourself at home,” Sam muttered, closing the door behind them.  He couldn’t help but huff out a little laugh at Cas’ reasoning.  Yes, Dean wouldn’t tolerate anything but optimal function.  The last time Sam had tried to get more than two hours’ sleep in Dean’s presence he’d made it clear that he thought he’d had enough; that had been a long time ago, though.  “I don’t think that Dean’s all that concerned about my sleep habits, Cas.”

            “On the contrary.  He’s very concerned about you, Sam.”  Cas picked up an accordion file from the shelf above the desk.  “’Pattern Analysis of Poltergeist Activity in Rural Massachusetts, 1892,’” he quoted.  “Sam, why are you reading this?”

            “I’m not.  The last guy was.  Look, is there something I can help you with?”  Sam crossed his arms over his chest.

            Cas sat down on the bed.  “I feel… well, I feel guilt.  I battered Dean’s face.  He would not let me heal him.”

            “He’s not mad, Cas.  He knows you weren’t in control of yourself.”  Sam kept a small sigh to himself.  “This time or the last.”

            “No.”  The angel hung his head.  “I was not.  I’ve never felt that.  That loss of control.  It’s _horrible._  I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

            “Wouldn’t you?”  The words came out before Sam could stop them, but he wouldn’t take them back.  “I have a little bit of experience there.”

            Cas waved a hand, dismissing him.  “I need to… I need to show him that I can still be trusted.”

            Sam sighed and rubbed his hands over his face.  “You’ve got nothing to worry about, Cas.  He forgave you the last time, right?  Which,” he added, leaning in for emphasis, “was also not your fault.  And he forgave you for the whole thing with Raphael, and Purgatory, and the Leviathan, and that wall in my head.”

            “He did.”  Castiel nodded.  “He’s a very forgiving man.”

            Sam blew out a little breath of air.  “Sure.  So he’s going to forgive you for this.  He already has.  He feels bad about apparently beating you up back before the Mark was removed.  That’s all, Cas.  He doesn’t hold this against you at all.”

            Cas slumped.  “He should.  I should have been stronger, better able to fight the spell.”

            “Nothing you could have done, Cas.  There’s a reason we fight witches, you know?”  Sam tried to project sympathy and concern, but mostly wished that Cas would get the hell out of his room.

            Castiel paused.  “You seem troubled.”

            “I thought that was a defining trait?”  Sam tried for humor.  It fell flat.

            “It is.  But at the moment it seems more pressing.  Humans often find it easier to talk through their troubles?”   Castiel squinted at him.  “But you’re not prone to talking of your own issues.”

            “You’ve got your own shit to deal with, Cas.”

            “You should discuss your issues with your brother.  He is resentful when you keep secrets from him.”

            Sam glared.  “I’m aware, Cas.”

            “This has never stopped him from keeping secrets from you, however.”  Cas tilted his head to the side.  “I wonder why that is.”

            Sam shrugged.  This wasn’t something to bring up with Castiel.

            Fortunately for Sam, Cas wasn’t inclined to stick around.  He’d gotten the reassurance he’d apparently been looking for and was prepared to go off and do angel things someplace else.  He’d never wanted to spend much more time around Sam than he’d had to; Sam wouldn’t expect anything to change now.  Sure they’d worked together a couple of times, but colleagues did not necessarily make friends.  He left Sam alone in fairly short order, and Sam was grateful for it.

            Sam had screwed up, and he knew it, but he had to wonder whether the problem had been in “keeping secrets” or in accepting a task that involved taking out Crowley.  Dean had had plenty of opportunities to take Crowley out himself, starting with when he’d had the guy trussed up in the trunk of the Impala while Sam was dying and had inexplicably failed to stab him in the brain.  He’d apparently had an absolute blast with Crowley during his time as a demon; Sam and Dean never did “fun” anymore.  And even before that, Dean had sought Crowley’s company.  Hell, Dean had cut deals with Crowley before Sam had even gone to Hell.

            So maybe Dean was more upset that Sam had been looking to take Crowley out than that Sam had been keeping secrets.

            Although it was entirely possible that Dean was legitimately pissed about the lack of disclosure.  He hated when Sam did things without permission, without Dean’s full involvement and taking point.  Sam knew why.  Sam couldn’t be trusted.  He’d never been trustworthy, he was unclean _“in a biblical sense”_ and he broke everything he touched.  He couldn’t blame Dean for his anger.

            Sam returned to his desk.  Sleep wouldn’t find him tonight.              

            Castiel had pointed out the double standard to him, and he’d asked about it, but he’d never condemned it.  Sam got that.  The rules were different for Dean.  They’d been different when they were kids, and they were different now.  It was okay for Dean to keep secrets from Sam, because he was Dean and he was the good son, trustworthy and shining.  It was okay for Dean to consort with Crowley, to replace Sam with Crowley, because Crowley was stronger and more powerful and more fun.  Sam was just the bad seed, a ne’er-do-well.  Sucking the life out of Dean’s life since the day he’d been born, to coin a phrase, and unclean in ways that nothing could ever purify.

            He sat back at the desk.  Trying to prove himself was a lost cause.  He’d just screw it up again, and Dean didn’t want him to prove himself anyway.  He’d work to find a solution to the Darkness.  He had a pretty good idea what waited for him afterward.

 

 


End file.
